Each morning, I retreat to this spot in my house. A small room, carved out of the now finished basement. Two of the four walls have the exposed (painted white) brick from the days when the basement was one long space. The floor is the typical concrete floor for a basement, with a couple layers of different colored paints, now scratched and 'artsy.' There is a section of the room where my old weight bench sits and a stack of weight plates is near it. And just as you enter the door, there is my art table, filled with supplies and not nearly enough space to draw. But it's my space.
My desk sits behind the door; a monstrosity for the size of the room. These days, it's filled with an old pc desktop I fire up for the occasional "work from home" days. And the desk is cluttered with papers and books that need to be filed and organized. I have a closet where I keep my gym clothes and reams of paper I bought years ago to use in my graphic art business. Old items are everywhere and there is hardly any room to do much but sit down. But it's my space.
Like my poem "A Blank Page," this place holds far more than meets the eye. The space isn't about the clutter or the disarray of a man trying to "find himself," it is the space where I can step on the other side of reality and pluck a dream or ideal to share. Colors, words, images and sounds can be found in my space. And at the right time, in the right place, my space will be your space.
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